


Pretty Little Spider

by glacis



Category: Spider-Man (Movieverse)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-31
Updated: 2010-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-06 22:01:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glacis/pseuds/glacis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Goblin tries to take an ally. Norman cracks. Peter's clueless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pretty Little Spider

Pretty Little Spider - Some dialog from the official novelization of the film by Peter David; some paraphrased from the film.

 

"Stop pretending, Norman ..."

No wonder the voice sounded so familiar. It was his own. Norman Osborn stared, terrified, at the reflection that both was and was not his own. Gaunt face, maniacal eyes, body flinching and stalking like a predator at the same time. Manifestation of the madness within him, brought forth into the light where he could no longer deny it.

Could only surrender to it.

Could have everything he wanted, at the cost of his soul. A price he'd already paid. He stopped shaking, terror giving way to acceptance. His reflection smiled at him. A last terrified shiver ran through him.

"There is only one who could stop us," the monster purred. A thought struck him, borne of the last shriek of his conscience, and something darker, more opportunistic.

"Or ... or be our greatest ally."

The monster, the Goblin, laughed.

So did Norman.

By the end of the breath, the sound had blended until only one rang through the hall. It sounded uncannily like a cackle, but there was no one there to hear.

Finding the Spider-man was simple. Crashing through the wall of the Daily Bugle, he caught the editor by the throat and shook him like a terrier with a rat. A name. All he needed was the name of the photographer who took such clear close shots of the Spider-man, and the freak would be in his fist. Then they could talk terms. But first, the newsman had to talk. He wasn't cooperating.

"I don't know who it is!" he gasped. "They come through the mail!"

The Goblin tightened his fist.

"Last chance," the Goblin sang to him. The newsman gagged and began to turn blue.

"You looking for me?"

Behind the mask, Norman's grin matched the Goblin's. He turned in place. At his back, the newsman began to squawk about them being in league. The Goblin ignored him, but Spider-man shot a glob of web at him, plugging his mouth.

"Hey, kid, let Mom and Dad talk a minute, okay?"

"Nighty-night," the Goblin whispered, releasing a jet of gas while the Spider-man's attention was still on the idiot newsman. It worked perfectly, of course. Hands loosened from the web rope, the cowled head fell back, and the Spider-man's limp body plummeted. The Goblin cackled, kicked his glider into gear, and caught the falling body before it hit the ground.

Carrying the unconscious Spider-man, the Goblin landed atop one of the derelict buildings along the dock. Dumping the body next to a skylight, propping the bug man upright and leaving him there to let him regain consciousness, he stared at the one obstacle to his plans.

He was smaller than he'd seemed when they were fighting. Not light, muscular, but compact, with blocky shoulders and solid thighs. He'd felt substantial in the Goblin's arms, but now, bonelessly slumped, out like a light, he looked weirdly breakable. The Goblin prowled around, circling closer and closer until he hovered over the sprawled body.

Reaching down, he ran an armored hand over the raised web-like markings on the suit. Norman's scientific curiosity got the better of him, and he leaned down, running his hands all over the suit, testing the elasticity and tension in the material, studying the composite materials woven into it. The Goblin allowed the touches, letting his own twisted curiosity out to play.

His fingers paused at the edge of the mask. No, he wouldn't lift it. He respected the wallcrawler's privacy, because he respected the man behind the Spider. At least for the moment. That could change, depending on the Spider-man's reaction to his proposed alliance. The next time he saw the bug man he might have to kill him. So he'd touch while he could, before he destroyed.

While Norman's attention was taken up with the costume, the Goblin concentrated on the body beneath it. Strong muscles stretched over broad shoulders, down the densely-packed muscles of his chest beneath the black spider silhouette, across sturdy thighs spread loosely in unconscious relaxation, down the vee of his pelvis to one of the few spots of softness on his body, where his genitals were bundled. Protected by the suit, but undeniable given the close fit of the material.

Deep in his bifurcated brain, Norman protested, but it was a weak effort at best. Norman had his own predilections, well-disguised but self-admitted; there was a reason he was still a single father so long after Harry's mother had left the scene, and it had little to do with protecting his assets. Still, one of the few principles left in him objected to fondling an unconscious man.

The Goblin jeered and crushed the flare of rebellion. He knew what he wanted, and he would **get** what he wanted. Norman wanted it too, but as with everything he'd gained since the Goblin came into being, he was too weak to go after it, so the Goblin would do it for him.

He left the mask, but the rest of the costume was not sacred, and he quickly rolled the webslinger on his belly. Splaying the thighs he been playing between even further apart, he eyed the tumbled limbs, tapering back and muscled ass with approval. Lust shook him. He ran his hands over the costume, looking for fastenings, as Norman calculated how long before the bug man woke up. Of course, he'd still be paralyzed for several minutes even after that, but the Goblin actually did want to make the Spider-man his ally if he could. Having him come to in the midst of being fucked wouldn't do a whole lot to further that goal.

So he'd have to get it done before the Spider-man woke up.

As his hands discovered zippers and eased them down, Norman began to gibber. The Goblin growled, and the noise damped down. Norman liked a good piece of ass, regardless of gender, and the wallcrawler definitely was that. The Goblin ran his fingers over the fine white skin, leaving red streaks in their wake, and pressed against the muscle, parting the flesh. Norman grumbled something about necrophilia.

"He's not dead, he's just sleeping, you fool," the Goblin sniped aloud. The body beneath his hands was warm even through the layer of armor, radiating an unnatural heat. "Goes along with the unnatural rest of him," he cackled softly. Norman whimpered. The Goblin stomped his protest without hesitation. He wanted. He took.

Unfastening the pelvic protector of his suit, he set it aside. He had no time for niceties, even if he'd cared about them. Time was ticking away. He lined his erection up and pushed it between the cheeks, grunting with effort and biting his tongue at how ridiculously good it felt.

For him, anyway. Judging by the bug man's groans, clear even through the mask, it wasn't as much fun on the other end. Too bad. The Goblin was having fun.

Almost too much fun. Sex was in short supply for scientists up to their necks in work trying to beat military deadlines, even when the scientist in question was richer than God, and sex for the Goblin was a whole new experience. Every nerve in his enhanced body, enriched as it was from being plugged into the suit and hyped to a literally insane level by the chemicals running through his bloodstream, screamed in unison.

Good.

So insanely, impossibly good.

He hunched over the webslinger's body, thrusting into him, armored thighs pushing web-clothed legs as far apart as the material bunched around them would allow, armored hands clamped onto the crumbling cement to either side of the jolting body, armored head lowered until his steel fangs hovered over the side of the cowled head. Orgasm made him see green, then white, then sheer black, as he choked back a scream.

Too soon, too soon, it was over, and he had to pull out. Pull back. Gasp a moment or two until he could breath easily again, and stare at the splashes of greenish white liquid splattered across the bruised ass and thighs. It looked obscene against the rich blue of the Spider-man's leggings.

Obscene and absolutely perfect.

He wanted to do it again. He reached down, but the bared flanks quivered before his hand touched them. Norman was screaming at him again, caution and timing and retreat, all the things the Goblin didn't want to hear but would heed because he must.

This time.

Carefully yanking the suit into place and zipping him into it, the Goblin rolled the wallcrawler over then dragged him up and sat him against the skylight again. Mere moments later the heavy head tried to lift.

The Spider-man tried to make a fist.

It was cute. Really.

"Relax," he said. "The gas has you paralyzed. For now. I could have killed you, of course. But I didn't."

"Who are you?" His voice was sleepy, disoriented but clearing fast. Not much time left at all.

"A kindred spirit." He launched into his spiel. "We're not much different, you and I. They call us freaks. We're not like them. We're better!"

"I'm not like you. You ... you're a murderer."

"Well, there is that." Shrugging it off, he added persuasively, "Do you think it matters? You've read the headlines. You know what they think of you. You choose to be a hero." He propped himself up against the light, nudging the broad shoulder with his leg. "People don't like heroes. They like to see them fall. They don't admire you. They hate you!"

He leaned closer. Reaching down with one hand, he caught the stubborn chin and turned the silver-masked eyes to face him. "There are fourteen million people in this city. Their sole purpose is to lift up the few truly exceptional ones. People like you and me." Feeling the weak pull as the Spider-man tried to evade his grip, the Goblin knew his time to talk was coming to an end. "We don't have to fight, killing hundreds of innocent people along the way. Join me. Think of all we could create ... or destroy. We could be ... incredible together."

Leaving him to think about it, the Goblin mounted his glider and sped away. The next time they met they would join together, or he would kill the Spider-man. Either way, he'd enjoy it. With an alliance, the Goblin would find out how much better it would be with the Spider-man when they were both awake. Without one ... well, it had been fun while it lasted, quick as it was, and killing was as big a rush as sex. He'd take what he could get from his pretty little spider, and dispose of him when he was finished.

It went precisely, and not exactly, as he expected. The webspinner made no move to join him, gave no hint of surrender or compliance, so the Goblin took matters into his own hands. Arranged for an apartment fire, an infant in jeopardy, all too predictable. The Spider-man showed up as the Goblin knew he would, saved the day, returned the babe to its mother's arms, flew back in to rescue the damsel in distress.

Except, of course, the damsel was the Goblin, and the Spider was the one in distress.

The fight was brutal and fun and, damn it, the Goblin lost. Showing amazing agility and preternatural reflexes, the Spider-man deflected or dodged almost all the Goblin threw at him. Almost all. One spinning blade made it through his flurry of gymnastic moves and opened a three inch cut on his arm. It wasn't enough. A kick to the chest took the Goblin unaware, and when he turned back around, his enemy was gone.

Of course, all the playing around with the wallcrawler made him late for Thanksgiving dinner. He'd promised Harry he'd be there to meet his young woman, and Norman demanded he keep that promise. The Goblin subsided, and kept a silent watch.

The girl was what he expected, nothing special; dyed red hair, nice tits, garish lipstick, trying too hard, eyes on the trust fund and heart securely locked away somewhere his son would never see it. Peter wasn't there, which surprised him, but while Norman looked for the boy, the Goblin crept out through his eyes. Because up in Peter's messy room there were noises where there shouldn't be. Blood where there hadn't been. No one when there should have been his son's brilliant, independent, quiet best friend.

The son Norman rather wished Harry was, in fact, a wish he'd tried to quash or at least hide for the past two years, but one that kept creeping back. The Goblin noted the blood, looked up at the roof and over the balcony but saw no sign of Peter or the Spider-man, and reluctantly allowed Norman to return to the dinner table. As he came down the stairs from Peter's room, the boy himself burst through the front door, mumbling apologies about rabid shoppers and homicidal bike messengers. Norman shook his head with wry affection.

Seating himself at the table, he dipped a finger into the candied yams. Peter's aunt slapped his hand, and for a moment the Goblin roared forth. Norman fought to maintain the semblance of normality as May handed him the carving knife. The Goblin wanted to gut her. Norman contented himself with whetting the knife and smiling a little more sharply than he probably should. Until May's attention was suddenly diverted.

"Peter! You're bleeding!"

He was. Peter, Harry's best friend, Norman's surrogate son, was bleeding from a cut along his left forearm. A cut that smelled like the same blood the Goblin recognized from his fight with the Spider-man; a cut the Goblin had just inflicted on the Spider-man half an hour before.

Dimly, Norman's inner voice gibbered, I've been like a father to that boy. He's been a good son. Better than my own. His mouth moved, and his voice sounded like it came from a great distance. "How did you say you that happened?"

Peter's guileless blue eyes stared back at him. "Bike messenger," Spider-man lied to him.

The Goblin pushed back his chair and headed for the door. Not here, not now, not in front of Harry. He'd have to kill all of them ... have to kill Peter! ... and he couldn't do that. Wouldn't kill Harry, and couldn't kill the others. Not here. Not now.

But soon. Very soon. In the aftermath of discovery, Norman Osborn died. The Goblin rejoiced.

"This changes everything."

END


End file.
